Lazy Days and Sundays
by Rally Collins
Summary: All he can ask for out of life is the occasional day to just relax and do nothing. Unfortunately, there's an ancient but powerful Chinese curse that goes, "May you live in interesting times." //part 4 of a prompt challenge//


Date: January 23, 2010

Disclaimer: Bandai, Sotsu Agency and Sunrise own Mobile Suit Gundam Wing. I do not. This is just for your entertainment and my need to brush up on my writing skills.

A/N: This is the fourth in the "20 Word Mix" prompt challenge from Lelandra of one of my Gaia Online Guilds. The prompt word is "lazy" though another prompt, "bleak," also got lodged in my brain for this one. So, now, the theme is "bleak" and the prompt, "lazy." I'll just have to do "bleak" another time. This story will only be a two or three-shot. Comments and critiques are always welcome.

**Lazy Days and Sundays  
- The Detonator and I -**

Lazy days and Sundays always get me down.

Was that how that old song went? Well, wasn't that just bleak as all Hell and gone? And who the Hell thought of Sundays as being depressing? Mondays, sure, but not Sundays. And lazy days were never dreary. Not that there were a lot of them going around, but, damn, I'd take a lazy day any time of the week.

"Showtime," I breathed, left thumb smashing down the button of a pen-sized detonator. The explosion came only a second or two later, just enough time to tuck all limbs in tightly and plaster my body against the short stone wall before the flames whooshed past overhead. As soon as it was clear, I was up over the wall and running, eyes sweeping the area and right hand responding to any potential threat, popping up to squeeze off a couple of rounds toward each one.

I was halfway to the outer wall before my gunfire was returned. A quick drop to the ground and a full two rolls to the left got me under the safety of a transport truck. Now, I do not consider that the underbelly of a truck would be a safe location for very long, but it was the only cover. "Shit." The mutter was lost as several other guns joined the first in a chorus of weapon fire.

Thank god trucks don't just decide to explode in glorious fireballs of death from a stupid bullet or two as every action movie would have us believe. If they did, well, let's just say that there would now be a Duo Maxwell-shaped charred red splat right in the middle of the local OZ training facility. A few more guns joined in on the fun and it occurred to me, I didn't want to end up as a Duo Maxwell-shaped _simple_ red splat in the middle of the local OZ training facility either, so I had better damn well figure _something_ out.

I look at the detonator in my left hand. Why was I still holding that? There was only the one bomb, it's not like I still needed it, but for some odd reason, I really didn't want get rid of it. I scuttled backward toward the end of the truck, apparently, not getting low enough, because my back unexpectedly hits the low hanging muffler and knocks me flat onto the ground. Gasoline fumes burn the inside of my nostrils as I peel my much abused face off of the pavement and there's a distinct sensation of liquid trickling onto my shoulder blades. Awesome. The fuel tank's been hit and I do exactly what _any_ highly-trained soldier would do; maneuver myself directly under it. Brilliant, Maxwell. What's your next plan? Strike a match?

In rolls a perfectly-timed grenade. "God_damn_."

It wasn't much of a soliloquy, but it wasn't like I had a whole lot of damn time. I did manage to kick the grenade back the way it came and then scrambled to my feet out the other side. If you think I succeeded in coming out of that venture unscathed, you've got another think coming.

Now, I'm not trying to complain. I did _not_, as you might imagine, go up in a ball of fire as the transport proved capable of blocking the grenade blast. On the trek out from under the truck, I _did_, however, bang the back of my head on the bottom of the transport hard enough to cause blotchy vision, stumbled further out into the open than was either necessary or wise and then found my gun flying in one direction, my body in the opposite and my right shoulder full of lead. "Motherfuck."

Flat on your back and weaponless with half a dozen gun barrels trained on you is not a situation I'd wish on anyone, but, y'know, I was still alive and that was something to be thankful for, right? And, hey, that detonator was still firmly clutched in the fingers of the hand not losing sensation from blood loss and tissue damage. Again, I have no idea why.

"Don't move." The barked command was steel-edged and cold as ice. Most of the times I've heard that particular order it was delivered with panic or excitement, by a solider trained but without real world experience in the way of killing. This guy knew what he was about and I'd bet my left nut that he was the one who tagged me and that he didn't miss his mark. His intent had been to disarm and incapacitate. If he wanted me dead, I would be. Competence of his level was a rare find. I'm just _so_ lucky that _I_ got to be the one to discover it.

I froze. I'm not stupid. Regardless of what some people might say about me, I do not mouth off at _everyone_ and I do not insult the professional killer with his gun leveled on me. I held still even as the gasoline on my back began to burn skin. The shoulder, I was trying not to think about. It was just as well that I was forbidden from movement. If I turned to get a look at the damage, it'd just end up hurting more.

"Left hand," he ordered taking a step closer, so he could stare down his two-handed grip at me. "Drop it."

My fingers unclasped and the detonator was swiftly kicked off to the side before it could hit the ground. With it, went my hope of escape. Without it, I had only my pounding, oozing shoulder, my cracked skull, my still somewhat spot-laden vision and my searing back. Useless as it was, the detonator was stolidly there for me and we were really beginning to bond. Shut up! I know how dumb that sounds so just keep your thoughts to yourself.

My sense of loss didn't last long for the next thing I knew, my head collapsed in on itself and the school of dots in my eyes expanded to cover the world in darkness.

Well, shit, goddamn and motherfuck.

To be continued...

[1]: "Lazy Days and Sundays" is a common misquote of "Rainy Days and Mondays" by The Carpenters. I'm not really sure how it got quite so mixed up, but I started the prompt thinking the misquote was correct. I was too far into the challenge to change it when I discovered my idiocy by Googling the lyrics for the original artist.

[2]: "Shit, goddamn and motherfuck." Borrowed from snowdragonct's "The Wedding Planner". It sort of smooth-jazzed its way into my writing session and I went with it. This will _not_ be a running theme past the first chapter. Thank you, snow and please forgive me for using it. Honest, I'll take it out if you want me to. Don't hate me, please.


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